


On the Wives of Finwë

by AmethystTribble



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, I started this for Finwean Ladies Week, Warning: Foreshadowing and Dramatic Irony, We're here to talk about ladies, and that means Feanor and Finwe can sit down for a little while, but I'm really stressed so we're just doing Indis and Miriel for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 06:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystTribble/pseuds/AmethystTribble
Summary: Miriel: Her creations are things of beauty, of that she is sure. No one else seems to appreciate that.Indis: Those days when all her children were still with her... Indis remembers them as the best days of her life.





	1. Her Darlings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this at three (3) in the morning.

Tomorrow, Miriel was going to meet the king.

Technically, there was more than one king- four, in fact- so it was incorrect to say such a thing as ‘the king’. That implied a singular king, or a king above all others. Miriel supposed there was a ‘the king’ by that definition. But he lived far away, high in the mountains that another king now marched towards. Neither were the one she spoke of. As far as Miriel was concerned, the only king of note was her king. Her tribe’s king- the king of the Noldor- was the only one that mattered. She was going to meet him tomorrow.

It was because of her darlings.

Her creations had become quite intricate and beautiful, if she did say so herself. With bone, Miriel and Suretal had jabbed and criss-crossed her twine into her cloths. The results had been much better than draping and tying clothing shut to keep warm. But her true genius laid in how she drew her patterns with more twine still, mimicking leaves and flowers on the hems of her skirts. She’d showed the results to the hunters of their clan, back when they were still across the ocean, and they dismissed her. But Orome, Lord Orome himself, spied her work on her blouse from amid a hundred elves, and complimented her. Camouflage, he called it. Miriel would just call it style.

She made up that word herself.

Her embroidery- another of her words, Suretal hated how she cavalierly threw sounds together- has progressed since then. Mahtan had helped. He was the best of them all, of that Miriel was certain. He’d seen her bone spikes when he’d taken his clothes to her to be hewn into a shape that would protect the whole of his legs from fire. She thought and pondered and experimented, and when he returned in a week, Miriel presented his with trousers. In return, Mahtan gifted her needles, just like her bone ones but metal and infinitely sharper.

Miriel kissed him in thanks.

Her stitches were much neater now, her patterns smaller and more intricate. She could make more than flowers and leaves. Miriel created leaping animals, dancing elves, blossoming fires and crashing waves. Her skirts were beautiful. They were envied. Some asked that she copy her work for them to wear, but Miriel waited. Mahtan has helped her perfect her stitches. Now she would make them better than perfect.

She looked towards colors.

In the east, Suretal was the first to crush up her berries and dye her twine. On Tuna, she and Miriel stripped down to their bare bodies, gathered baskets and baskets of different colored berries, and dumped them all in buckets. They stamped and jumped and giggled as they smashed the color and gleefully dipped their thread and cloth in the mess.

Miriel loved wearing colors, she decided; she loved reds, oranges, blues, purples, greens, yellows, and everything in between. She painted her skirts like the night sky as she would have designed it, had Varda asked her opinions. All the stars were different colors, though the constellations she left the same. Those were nice.

After the colors, she and Suretal could not deny the demands. They went to work. They designed for all their friends, stitching- embroidering, Miriel was still trying to get Suretal to say it- until they could no longer feel their fingers. She bled, some nights. Miriel was callous with her own wounds, but oh so careful not to stain her creations with blood. Blood was ugly. Blood was unworthy.

Most things, Miriel had decided, were unworthy of her work. She saw how dirty Falmion had made one of her most beautiful robes, and screamed herself hoarse. She nearly ripped her darling from his body, but Suretal shepherded her away. It was a travesty, a disgrace, and she cried bitterly.

“Mirë, they are clothes,” Suretal stressed, “They are meant to be worn, of course they will wear down. Mirë don’t cry, of course it won’t last, but we will make more.”

Suretal didn’t understand. None of them understood. How could they treat her creations so callously, if they understood? They were beautiful, so beautiful, and they were hers. Her embroidery was meant to be admired, not tossed aside. Miriel could not abide it. But Suretal was right. They were clothes.

Miriel took her twine and her bones and her fingers, and decided to make something else. Something beautiful and useless. No one would use up her creations then; take and take from them and drain her darlings until they were a lightless husk. No. Miriel took her string and made paintings.

It was easy, really, once she thought of all those baskets she’d weaved. She just copied that, starting small. First, she weaved her colors together as she first stitched her skirts, working with easy shapes. Then she made flowers and leaves. Then animals and elves and fires and waves, and then Miriel weaved herself and Suretal.

They were beautiful, and Suretal cried when she looked at the string painting of them. It hung on their wall, and none dared touch it. Miriel’s darling was safe for evermore.

She kept weaving, more and more. She weaved friends, customers, sceneries, animals, absolute, abstract nothingness, whatever she liked. And the people loved them, just staring and staring. Never abusing, always holding them as preciously as she did. They took care of her spirit now, as gently as she had placed it into those tapestries.

It was for her tapestries that Finwë wanted to see her tomorrow. He had a request to make, a scene he wanted to immortalize. They were going to talk about it tomorrow. Miriel hoped that when she weaved a thing of beauty for the king, he would care for her darling gently.

Otherwise she would never make anything for him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal was to write something for Miriel without mentioning either Feanor or Finwe, and I 99% succeeded. I've really grown attached to this version of Miriel, full of spunk and anger and joy and curiosity. It's how I imagine Feanor, so I like writing parallels between them. I also just like Miriel with some life in her, it makes her eventual fate all the sadder. The theme of this fic 'dramatic irony', which was an accident.
> 
> Also, I've decided Suretal is Nerdanel's mother for reasons even I do not understand. This is an inconsequential detail.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave kudos and comments if you feel inclined to, they make my day!


	2. Happy Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those years when all her children were with her, before they went off to start their own lives, were the happiest Indis ever knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this at one (1): thirty (30) in the morning yesterday.

Indis’s days went accordingly:

She opened her eyes as the first rays of Laurelin’s light slipped through the navy curtains. They were embroidered with silver and gold, and Indis loved to watch them shine as she leisurely shook off the last of Irmo’s gifts. After properly coming alive for the day, she gave her still sleeping husband a kiss he would not remember, and stretched. 

Then she dressed. She preferred long robes of simple colors; soft, cool shades, green or blue or grey, with a simple beige shawl. 

She would walk down the hall and duck her head into the children’s rooms, where she would say good morning to her babies, and maybe rouse Findis. She slept in late like her father. Once woken, Findis- like Nolofinwë- preferred to in much the same attire as Indis, but Lalwendë and Arafinwë were spots of chaos. Both of them chatted amiably in the morning with servants who catered to their outlandish tastes for the day, running around with garish colors and clashing gems and bells and shells and whatever else they wanted. Indis thought them a bit like birds, and whistled and chirped to grab their frenetic attention. She and Nolofinwë met each other at his door, where he would kiss her on the cheek as he strutted away to start his day. He was like her, and he hated wasting time.

Indis would spend an hour in the gardens before breakfast. She liked to water her plants herself.

As the family ate, Finwë would read a letter from Fëanáro. The boy wrote sporadically, and only to his father. This was a disappointment for the children, as they did try so diligently to write to Fëanáro themselves. But he was a busy boy, and he wrote long, long letters to his father with a thousand questions and answers, and tales of achievement and experimentation and adventure that roused the children and banished their upset. It always came to pass that they read his letters in parts at breakfast, never able to finish an entire correspondence in one day. By the time they finished perusing one, a new letter typically arrived. If Indis suspected that Finwë censored some of his son’s words for the children’s ears, she had long since decided she didn’t need a confirmation.

Following breakfast, Indis collected Nenyë and went about her duties. Together with her assistant, Indis calculated how much iron they would need for the horses’ new shoes, she requested more duck for Arafinwë’s coming birthday feast, she wrote a letter back to Lord Sinwa. Occasionally, throughout her morning, one of her children would come into her sanctuary. Arafinwë liked to just sit at her feet, while Findis would read quietly. Lalwendë came to chat, to seek permission, to report some naughtiness she’d gotten in to. She never stayed long. Nolofinwë- bless him- was the most distracting. He would ask questions about her work, and loom over her shoulder. He often pondered moral quandaries, but he didn’t do so out of joy; they upset him frequently and he would pace back and forth, asking her opinion about this and that. Sometimes the boy came to rest his head on her shoulder and give a good cry. He would never let himself cry in front of his father. 

Despite the children, all was in order- or, at least, in order to be in order- by the time she removed her head from her desk at lunch time.

For her noontime meal, Indis took a light tea with cakes and sandwiches in her garden. The ladies came. Young Anaire, and respected Rainiel, and Nenyë, and many more besides. They discussed many things, like fabrics and Tengwar, songs and the Valar, the next motion to build a road north and the costs, the fashionability of fans, how the tea had grown lukewarm, and whatever it was that Fëanáro had done this week.

After her ladies were dispersed, Indis went about handling the household. She asked if they had enough of this or that. She requested repairs. She scolded or praised servants, doled out pay. She watched the children with their tutors for a while. Then she went to Finwë.

They spent an hour doing whatever might come to mind for them on that day. Mostly they read poetry, and composed their own. Whosever was the most atrocious won. But some days... Well, once they even managed to conceive Lalwendë.

Indis’s respite did not last long, though. After their retreat, Finwë threw open the doors to his hall and sat and listened to his people. Indis went down to Tirion’s center. She sat at the great fountain, and held court on her own. She listened to merchants and let children braid her hair and chatted with love struck young ones about their coming wedding- thinking all the while that most of the excited couples would be likely not last the year of engagement, as they were hasty. Hasty, hasty in their love. They should be careful in that.

When the sky began to tint silver, Indis collected her skirts and headed home. She would gather the children from their hiding spots- Findis in her library, humming under her breath; Nolofinwë in the training yard, his thoughts a thousand miles away from sport; Lalwendë giggling in the gardens, surrounded by friends; Arafinwë was always sitting in the room dedicated to the Valar, bathing in the multi-colored light coming in through the stained-glass windows. 

Then they had dinner, and discussed their days. Nolofinwë monopolized his father, asking about what he heard when he held court, what the nobles and the commoners said, what news Ingwë or Olwë had. Findis asked if Uncle Ingwë wrote of their cousins, always conscious of family in a way that Nolofinwë occasionally forgot to be. Lalwendë and Arafinwë chatted and snickered together, until she grew bored and moved on to pester another  
sibling. Arafinwë showed Indis the pictures he’d made that day, and recounted how he’d made friends with one of the barnyard cats. He seemed determined to be friends with every animal in Tirion.

Some days, Indis requested dessert for the children, usually on the days when Finwë retreated to his office immediately after dinner. He would be writing to Fëanáro then, and skipping their typical family session by the fire. 

There they would play card games and dice games and little tile games. By the end of the day, Nolofinwë had picked out one thing from Fëanáro’s letter to either gush or gripe on, and he would discuss that incessantly. Findis liked to banter with him about it, deciding to speak cruelly or highly of her elder brother, depending on how Nolofinwë had decided he felt that day. She always picked the opposite of his side. 

Once Nolofinwë had been riled enough that Lalwendë was able to stomp her only real competition in their games, Findis retreated to her grand harp. Lalwendë crooned over her victory, and recounted the names and families and looks of each boy who had gifted her a flower that day. Indis despaired when she would start courting for real. Arafinwë fell asleep in an armchair.

Indis put the children to bed, no matter how big and grumbling. She laid a soft kiss on each head, and she sang her troubled ones to sleep when the day called for it. She made sure Arafinwë had his sweet stuffed rabbit in his arms, and Findis had her unicorn in hers.

Then Indis went to pray. She prayed for a long time, careful to speak to each of the Valar and Iluvatar. She asked for guidance, good fortune, patience and happiness and strength. She pled that her children continue to grow up vibrant and happy and safe and happy. She prayed that her husband stayed strong. She thanked each of the Valar profusely.

And after all those prayers were done, Indis spoke to Miriel. 

_He is so bright, Miriel, so clever, Miriel. So lost, Miriel._

Indis never asked the Valar for Fëanáro’s safety or happiness or strength. But she did ask Miriel. 

_He needs you, my friend. Guide me, so that I may be what he needs._

Indis went to bed then, to spend more time with her husband. They whispered and laughed and cried and made love and loved. Some days they sang, some days they read, some days they were so enraptured with each other they couldn’t sleep until dawn, and some days they couldn’t bear to look at one another at all. They fell asleep in each other’s arms. 

The next day, Indis’s life started all over again, and she thought that she could not possibly be happier. But other people could be, and that knowledge always lingered in the back of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon time! So, the way I'm playing this is that Indis and Finwe knew each other before Finwe ever actually knew Miriel. Indis was already in love with Finwe at the time, and she thought he was growing to love her in return (he was) and they would get married in time. But while she's building Valmar with her brother, Indis recommended her good friend Miriel- who she knew through Miriel's work when they were all on Tuna- to Finwe. Then, Miriel and Finwe hit it off instantly, and were very quickly married. Indis tried to be happy for them, but was crushed. She thought it was an ill-advised match, something whirlwind and hasty. 
> 
> Something I've tried to show here was that Indis is a good person, a good mother, a good wife, but most importantly a good queen. I don't think Miriel was, caught up in her craft. What I'm getting at here, is that I think Indis and Finwe (in my interpretations of them) are the perfect couple on paper, and would have a perfectly, eternally happy life together, with a slow-growing, steady love. But passion is what went into Finwe and Miriel's love, and the heart acted quickly and fiery on that one. They're just two kinds of love I think, and I'm not making a YA love triangle judgement on this. It was just a bad situation all around.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! If you'd like, I'd love comments and kudos, thank you!


End file.
